


John Watson and the case of the Stolen Mournstache

by mccrackalacken



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Other, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 02:43:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mccrackalacken/pseuds/mccrackalacken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since Sherlock's death, John was mourning - and came up with a coping method: the mournstache. His girlfriend, Mary, said it looked nice. He kept it.<br/>Now Sherlock is back, and the only thing he considers is how much he hates it - the ghastly catarpillar of hair above John's upper lip. It has to go - and it does. <br/>Featuring Veet, an unshaven John Watson, and an apartment break-in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	John Watson and the case of the Stolen Mournstache

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my God. I don't know what came over me, but I had to write this. I laughed approximately the whole time I was writing it - I'm not sure if I'm serious or not. It started as not, at least.

Sherlock didn't sleep easy, or often. His recent return to John hadn't gone as planned, as per se, and he didn't know exactly what to do about it. He'd had the sneaking suspicion that John wouldn't take it too well - but hell, how was he supposed to know how the people feel about that sort of thing? No-one close to Sherlock had _died,_ ever, for Christ's sake! 

But John's mournstache... was an entirely other story.

It was a hideous caterpillar on his face, far too thick and wiry against his skin, too long to fit his face shape - actually, ditch that, nothing suited John but clean-shaven. Sherlock could only just picture him with a full beard...

Gross. Sherlock shook his head, quick and disgusted and made a move for the bathroom cabinet. He knew _exactly_ what he'd do about this...

 

Sherlock stood at the bottom of the apartment block, glancing at his watch. It was just gone two a.m - John and Mary should be asleep by now.

Sherlock had planned sparingly. All he carried was a sachet of hair removal cream, a bobby pin, and a shaving razor (in case of an emergency). He was sure it would work - when was he wrong?

Opening the front door was easy - he could tell how the keypad had been worn that the code was short - 1746. Standard - and easy. He didn't even have to think. The illuminated keypad opened with a beep, and he was inside within moments, coat billowing behind him.   
The lights in the hallway flickered on automatically, and it took moments for Sherlock to get up the stairs, onto John's level. How did he know? He'd overheard - it was easy. John should know better than share his adress near Sherlock - God only knows what he could do! 

The window jarred as Sherlock pulled at it, but after a bit of determination, it sprung open, metal shutters loud and unpleasant in his ears. He ignored it - all he could see, at the front of his mind, was John's mournstache.

"That damn mournstache," Sherlock muttered as he climbed out of the window and hauled himself onto one of the many balconies. "Why did he ever think it suited him?" He hopped from one balcony to the next until he found John's, breaking the lock easily with the bobby pin. There was no security nowadays. 

He stepped into the plush living room and spread his arms. It was warm - Mary quite obviously insisted on keeping the heating on - but small. It suited John, in a way, Sherlock thought. 211b suited him better, though.

He made way to the bedroom quickly, a few long strides before he reached the door. He pressed an ear to it - nothing - before pushing it open, slow and deliberate. 

Light filtered in through the slats of the blinds, the flickering streetlamps illuminating John's dormant figure. The light fell over his form softly, a pale amber - directly over his face. Sherlock went to work fast, taking out his small packet of Veet. He opened it with his teeth, relishing in the tearing sound. Oh, it was sweet to know the mournstache would be gone soon. He made his way slowly to John's bed, standing over his figure. John stirred for a moment, mumbling in his sleep, but his breathing soon turned steady, soothing. Mary was curled in on his arm, a small frown on her face. Obviously John hadn't been sleeping well either. Wasn't just Sherlock.

Sherlock began to empty the sachet's fillings onto John's mournstache slowly, making sure it lathered every single ghastly hair. It looked like shaving cream, thick and a creamy-white. Counting in his head, he knew he would have to wait five minutes. He could tell neither of the party would awake, so he went to searching John's drawers. They were empty, obviously, spare a full bottle of cheap aftershave and condoms. Sherlock wanted to gag - what use did he have with _those?_

Slowly and carefully, Sherlock shut the drawer. He slowly wrapped his hand in the bedsheet, extending a finger to make some kind of cleaning device. He could see the bullet wound through John's shoulder. Sherlock leaned forward - and as softly and carefully as he could - pressed his finger to John's cheek, moving it to swipe away the mournstache. It came away perfectly, each small hair attaching to the sheet, leaving his face bare. Sherlock dropped the sheet and sniggered, but as he stepped back, a floorboard creaked. John shot up - but sherlock was already out the door, moving for the balcony, for escape.

"SHERLOCK!"


End file.
